


Lose Interest in Fauna and Never Speak of It Again

by crowleyshouseplant (orphan_account)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Reality, Bloodplay, F/F, Power Play, troll!Jade
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:44:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 986
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293871
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/crowleyshouseplant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"It now drives you through the midnight brush, your paws whisking through creepers, unearthing with each bold stomp bright odors demanding investigation. But not for long, as you and your new friend must claim the night with piercing howls moonward. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	Lose Interest in Fauna and Never Speak of It Again

You lope through the flora, thorns snagging at your hard grey skin as Nepeta prowls beside you, her blue cat-hood pulled low over her forehead, her claws bared and ready, shiny and new, gleaming sharp as the fangs that protrude over both your lips.

You wear a wolf skin and nothing but a wolf skin. You tilt your head up to the sky, and your voice rips from your throat in a long howl and you feel Nepeta shudder beside you and hear the scampering paws fleeing you and your companion. 

“You smell them?” Nepata asks. “You smell their fear?”

The sound waves reverberate against your skin, stimulate your blood. You exchange a glance with Nepeta, and you skid to a halt against the floor, claws scrabbling in the dirt for purchase, so as to give them time to run, to hide. 

Nepeta slouches away from you, close to the ground. She wriggles, her limbs curled, before she pounces, not bothering to put her claws away. You collapse under her weight, and you both struggle, and your nails get caught in the cloth of her jacket, in the matted fur of the skin she wears. 

You stop struggling so that she can pin you, so that she can stick out her thin, rough tongue and drag it across your cheek before she bites down along the same stripe of skin, breaking through with her fang, smearing your green blood over your eyes and across the bridge of your nose and down the length of your neck. 

You know she’s done when she purrs in your ear, so you kick her off, flip her over, grab her by the hair at the nape of her neck (you shaved yours off long ago), and drag her face upwards so that you can lick your green blood from her and her tongue.  

You stop when the silence becomes oppressive, when the fear in the air begins to fade. Nepeta stiffens, alert. She’s smiling as she dashes forward through the bushes and you follow her as she finds a trail of the fiercest beast with the sharpest teeth and the oldest fangs. 

With Nepeta beside you, it is not hard to find the beast. It cannot hide from your clever noses. There is no escape from your jaws or your paws or your claws. Your skin is washed with the blood of your prey, and even though the creature’s heart no longer beats, Nepeta crouches beside it, takes its neck in her mouth, shakes it until it snaps. 

In the grove where you have slain it, a silence descends as Nepeta lifts her head, lips dripping animal blood, so you lick her clean before dragging the corpse back to the cave you share with Nepeta. Together you skin it and prepare it for future wearing. 

You stoke a fire while Nepeta prepares her paints—the blood and the ash and soot. In the molten glare of the heat, Nepeta takes off her cat skin because of the sweat beading from her pores. You watch while she recounts the tale from the hunt. 

She changes nothing, embellishes nothing. But when she paints the part with you and her, the way she slicked your cheek with her saliva and your blood, you see the glaze in her eyes, the way it affects her lobules and her globules. You crawl towards her, cut your hand so that you can add a flush to the sooty grey tinge of your skin, even though she bats your hand away, smearing your paint across the jagged cave wall. 

You push her back, and she stumbles over her bowls of ash and soot, spilling them to the ground so that it puddles around her bare feet. You follow through, bear down upon her so that she crumples to the floor, and, face pressed in the hollow of her neck, you growl like the wolf whose skin you’ve since discarded. You turn her head away from you by pressing your cut hand against her cheek—leaving a splotchy print there—as you lick and bite your way to her auricular sponge clots.  

You don’t quite break her skin—you only want enough to tease, glandular sweat and blood pulling you on—but she hooks her paint stained hands on your shoulders, flips you over, holds you down as she rubs herself down your body, purring against your erogenous globes until her trollian account chimes and you know it’s him and so does she, so she slides away from you and answers it.

You climb to your feet—she’s left the red blood of the monster flecked with ash and soot along the lengths of your limbs—and lope to the entrance of the cave.

The night is cold against your warm skin silked with sweat. You crouched against the jutting rock face. The pain doesn’t bother you as you hold up your hand, bloody red and green. 

You hadn’t always played with Nepeta and the monsters of Alternia. You played with the other trolls once.

It was dangerous like this wasn’t dangerous anymore. 

Monsters might break skin and bones, but they don’t really fight back.

You lift your hand to your eyes, turn it back and forth, remember when your fingers were decorated and ringed with the blood of your FLARPing mates so that you would never forget them.

But their blood is gone, washed long away by your nighttime whisking through the creepers, unpainted and un-renewed.

You wonder what Nepeta will do when she empties the forest of monsters. If she will turn to the trolls and their lusii.

You know how some of the others keep their lusii fed. 

You hear Nepeta with her moirail, and, closer, the buzzing and whirring of something else. Your fist lashes out, catching it tight in the palm of your hand.

You eat a weird bug and don’t even care. 


End file.
